we drown in our kisses
by Shiluette
Summary: How Ryoma deals with the summer heat. Atoryo.


Summer heat, you disgust me. So I wrote this piece.

Ryoma may come off a bit more teasing than I originally write him as. At least there is zero angst, so, yay!

/

Atobe has a thin scar on his right elbow.

It's very pale and white, the scar, and it must have happened quite a long time ago; that much Ryoma can gather. He traces the line one day when Atobe is half-asleep and therefore less prone to swat him and grumble about boundaries and the summer heat, and he is rewarded with a twitch, followed by one lazy blinking eye.

"What are you doing?" Atobe mumbles, but he doesn't take his arm away.

They are in Ryoma's house, and the room is stifling with the humidity of Tokyo's summer. At least his old man is not here (Atobe and Nanjiroh in the same house is something that Ryoma never really wants to contemplate too deeply) and Nanako is away on an errand that Ryoma made sure took hours. So here he is, in a small cramped bed with Atobe, wishing he had some air-conditioning for once, because that would at least mean the room would be chilly enough to snuggle and doze off to a more fitful sleep.

Not that Ryoma would. Snuggle. He would rather much be pinned down or do the pinning, he would be more vicious in his affections.

He opts for an affected bored tone. "Where did you get this scar?"

"Hm?" Atobe is still half-asleep. Ryoma wonders what he would prefer, Atobe awake and sniping at him, or a more malleable Atobe (more vulnerable, softer, open). He prefers stimulus, he decides, so he pokes Atobe under the ribs, twists his finger sharply for full effect. Instantly, Atobe jumps a little, yelps as he sits up, incredulous. He stares at Ryoma, his eyes narrowing.

"What was that for?!"

Atobe never curses. He supposes all captains and leaders don't, when he considers how Tezuka was stoic even if he had to deal with incompatible teammates for six years. Atobe is more expressive, though, something that fascinates Ryoma but shouldn't: he frowns and his eyes glitter dangerously when he is furious, or he refuses to speak at all, sometimes he sulks, other times he rolls his eyes. This reaction is more of annoyance than real anger, Ryoma thinks, and therefore thinks it is safe to shrug and deadpan,

"I was asking a question and you weren't paying attention."

Atobe stares at him as if he was insane.

Sometimes he thinks those gazes are unfair; the unblinking way Atobe looks at him, as if he was a puzzle to figure out. Some days that gaze is attached with hunger; those gazes are easier to understand. It comes when Ryoma gives an extraordinary good smash, when he grins and tosses a new serve, or even when they play and hit for hours and Ryoma can barely move but still manages to hit the last shot. It is a look that Ryoma understand, the hunger and fire in the older boy's eyes, a look that says _I_ _want to devour you_ and _I want to owe you._ It is a look that Ryoma can easily return with a sharp smirk and in those few seconds, everything unsaid can pass between them, and Ryoma deems it safe to lunge towards Atobe and let Atobe push him against the wall so that he can dig his fingers into the arm pinning him roughly. Those are the looks Ryoma prefers.

But there are other looks too; a look that Atobe is giving now is one of them. It is a look that implies 'you are a moron and I am therefore a moron for being here with you' or 'why am I with you still' or 'what if you never grow up, you insufferable brat' or even 'I must be very lonely and insane indeed if I am indulging in your company.' Those looks are fun to tease out, but they never have the same warmth as the former.

"You," Atobe says now, slowly, trying to understand, "Woke me up because of a question."

"It was important," Ryoma points out sensibly.

Atobe rubs his eyes. Shakes his head a little. A frown is about to form but Ryoma thinks it is half-serious. He is only peeved. "I vaguely heard a scar," Atobe says wearily. "Does that count as important."

"You heard," Ryoma says, and he can't help it, he smirks. "You weren't sleeping, then."

"Dozing. About to fall asleep. Or resting in peace, whatever you want to call it, until you decided to bruise me with your grisly hand," Atobe says sourly. "What is so important about a scar?"

"You never scar," Ryoma says, and he thinks it is a practical answer that even strokes Atobe's ego, but Atobe only snorts.

"Of course I scar. I bruise too, unless that escaped your poor intellect, and to remind you, I am also a human being who is very, very tired from a disastrous

match from—" Atobe looks at the clock "—oh, two hours ago, say, and this heat is not helping. _You_ are not helping."

"You only say disastrous because you lost," Ryoma observes, still grinning.

"I say that because it's melting today," Atobe snaps, and he proceeds to throw his head back into the pillows. He is glaring at Ryoma. "Why don't you have air conditioner in your room?"

Ryoma rolls his eyes. "Because this house is older than my old man and the government has rules against installing new tech for old and stupid temple-houses." He pokes Atobe; lighter this time, to his credit, but Atobe's face is still dark. "It's almost night soon, anyhow."

Atobe sneers. "In which case the mosquitoes will be out for our bloods."

"You're being such a snob today," Ryoma says.

"You woke me up from a nap. A good nap, I should add. I think that gives me a right to be less than chirpy to see your face."

Atobe talks too much, Ryoma thinks (has been thinking that for some time). He leans in and bumps his forehead against the older boy's; gently, in case Atobe complains about a bruise on the forehead too. Ryoma suspects that particular bruise would warrant louder wailings.

"What are you doing?" Atobe asks, eyes narrowing, and the words that Atobe sucks in and exhales, they all go straight into Ryoma's open mouth and nose. "It hot enough as it is."

"I like your eyes," Ryoma replies in turn; they come out accidently, Ryoma would like Atobe to think, but in truth he calculates a compliment to soothe Atobe, perhaps even to elicit an exasperated smile. It works halfway.

(And it's true, Ryoma does like Atobe eyes: they are ash-grey, they are blue sometimes in the right light, and other times they hold a speck of brown in them. When they play tennis and shake hands after, Atobe's smile is all teeth and his eyes are blown into dark grey and dangerous. Ryoma prefers those eyes the most, when they are brilliantly drawn to him, when they seem to consume, when Atobe looks at him with eyes and a feral smile and licks his lips unconsciously.)

"Are you trying to woo me now?" Atobe doesn't smile, but neither does he look so annoyed and bothered anymore; he merely murmurs his words more quietly, his eyes boring into Ryoma's own. The air changes, and Ryoma suppresses a shiver.

"Maybe," Ryoma concedes. He smiles and whispers, mock-innocent, "Is it working?"

"No." But now Atobe's lips lift, his hand rises. Fingers sweep across Ryoma's black locks. His head is secured against Atobe's snugly, the hand a force of gentle anchor.

"Liar," Ryoma says, "You would've push me away if it wasn't."

Atobe sighs, and his breath is hot, hovering between them. "You'd just bounce back." He pauses. "And for the record, I did not _lose_ to you. I just gave in because one of us would have had a stroke. You," and here Atobe pokes Ryoma with his free hand, "should thank me. I saved us from dying of a heat wave."

"Thank you," Ryoma says, and makes sure it is laced with the most disdain and sarcasm he can muster. "I am awed and humbled by the sheer generosity that you ooze out."

Here Atobe finally laughs, just as Ryoma expects he would. He also kisses him; the laughter is swallowed by their kiss.

Atobe's mouth is hot, hotter than the heat, hotter even than the match they had played hours before, but Ryoma doesn't mind. He opens his mouth, and Atobe's fingers dig into his scalp as he feels himself being lifted by Atobe's other hand. He heaves a leg over the older boy's torso, straddles himself snugly and neatly above Atobe, and so by the time they are finished, he is looming down and Atobe's hands are secure around his waist. Ryoma smirks.

Atobe raises an eyebrow. One hand skirts underneath Ryoma's T-shirt and a finger traces his ribcage in slow strokes. Ryoma puts on a bored expression with effort.

"It's too hot for this," Atobe points out, but the strokes don't stop, skin against skin, heat radiating more heat.

"It's not," Ryoma says, and then he pauses because now the fingers travel upwards, downwards, and soon he helps by shrugging off his T-shirt and tossing it off to the floor. He clicks his tongue and pulls at Atobe's own T-shirt, scowls when Atobe doesn't budge. "Move."

"You're sitting on me," Atobe points out, amused now, "Maybe we should resume the conversation about my scar now."

"Maybe I should scar you," Ryoma says sourly.

"You already bruised me." Atobe sighs, and his grip is tighter, insistent. "Maybe I'm falling into an abusive and fatal relationship. What do you say?"

"I think all the heat is getting to your brain, monkey king," Ryoma says sensibly. He pauses. "Unless you want me to—"

"Don't go there, Echizen," Atobe says, very firmly, and Ryoma grins, then laughs when Atobe gives him that look. The heat is sweltering and soon Nanako would come back, but for now, Ryoma thinks, leaning down and kissing Atobe again, the summer heat was tolerable, pleasant even.


End file.
